


A United Front

by rain_sleet_snow



Series: and malt does more than Milton can (to justify God's ways to man) [3]
Category: Primeval
Genre: Alternate Universe - Daemons, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-15
Updated: 2015-01-15
Packaged: 2018-03-07 18:14:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3178265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rain_sleet_snow/pseuds/rain_sleet_snow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Christine and her daemon are ready to take on the world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A United Front

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by tli. For the interested, Fidele is a gyrfalcon http://www.birdsasart.com/rootjpegs/Gyrfalcon-CAPTIVE-white-morph-w-wings-raised-_O7F8882-Nome,-Alaska.jpg , and his name is meant to be pronounced fid-ell, like the French fidèle, meaning faithful or loyal; Esteri is a cat with a grey mackerel tabby coat http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_z8u_itVZX94/Szdc0Dfv0NI/AAAAAAAAAs4/5TjqCPiEdZI/s1600/long-tail-tabby-cat-picture-2.jpg ; and Heseskiel is an Eurasian eagle owl. http://www.worldofowls.com/pics/eagle_owl1.jpg

             “James Lester,” Christine Johnson observed to her daemon, leaning on the rail and smiling coldly down into the atrium, “just isn’t right for this job.”

 

            Fidele, who had been idly circling the atrium on silvery wings, swooped back, and landed on the rail beside her. His talons clicked on the metal. “How so?” he asked, cool as ever.

 

            “He’s not ruthless enough.” Christine Johnson swept another glance over the technicians and scientists visible in the atrium, decided they were sufficiently cowed that she could continue with her plans, and retreated into Lester’s office. It had been left in good order; among the few qualities of Lester’s that she appreciated was his tendency to tidiness.

 

            Fidele leapt from the rail into the air, and coasted ahead of her into the office. “I don’t know.”

 

            “Really?” Christine sat down in Lester’s leather computer chair, and let it whirl gently from side to side, smiling at cautious Fidele. “Well, I suppose I must take your judgement, Fidele. You’ve met that kitty-cat daemon of his. What did you think of his-” she recalled a phrase common in popular psychology and hauled it out for inspection, letting her smile turn ironic as she enclosed the phrase in air quotes – “‘innermost nature’?”

 

            Fidele, who had come to a halt on a light-fitting which wouldn’t support his weight for much longer, cocked his head on one side and showed no signs of amusement. “Esteri? I was impressed by her.”

 

            “Really?” Christine repeated, but the smile was gone from her face. She sat up straight in her chair and wheeled it slightly forward until she bumped up against the desk, blue eyes intent on Fidele. “That’s unlike you, Fidele, you’ve never liked cats.”

 

            “I think we should be careful of them,” Fidele said. His voice was smoky and emotionless, but clear as ever. He was almost exactly the polar opposite of Esteri, who was always close at James Lester’s heels, small but elegant and mackerel-grey with witchy green eyes, prone to leaping up onto Lester’s knees and sitting there, straight-backed as an etiquette teacher and watching people, unblinking until Lester had finished speaking, then adding her own more elegant and more acidic comments to his words. Fidele, by contrast, rarely spoke when he and Christine were not alone, and he rarely kept to Christine’s shoulder. He liked to fly above her and around her, rapid and silent surveillance, her ears and eyes in the sky. He also liked to push the boundaries of their bond, had done since they were small, but Christine didn’t mind; in fact, she sympathised. When they were small they had loved the stories of the witches, of the undying northern tribes in ripped black silk and clouds, and if there had been a way to break the bounds of their bond without blinding pain they both would have taken it.

 

            “Careful,” Christine said, feeling her phone buzz in her pocket and taking it out. “Explain.”

 

            Fidele remained silent, which was quickly explained by the soft knock on the open door.

 

            “Yes?” Christine snapped without even looking up from her phone.

 

            “I thought you might be requiring this,” a quiet voice said from the doorway, and Christine looked up. The woman who stood there, her watchful owl daemon perched on her shoulder, was one Christine recognised as Lester’s PA – her PA, now, until she could import her own. If she even wanted to. Claire and her rabbit daemon were uninspiring, and at least this woman (Laura, Lauren, Laurel? No – Lorraine Wicker-something, Fidele would know) looked interesting. She also seemed to be efficient and thoughtful, because in one hand she held a perch.

 

            “How thoughtful,” Christine said, flashing the woman a smile.

 

            “Thank you,” Lester’s PA said evenly, and she set the perch down. Fidele pounced on it, brushing the woman with his wings. She started back, but otherwise did not react; Fidele glared at her owl daemon, and she stood firm. The owl daemon blinked once, slowly, and then held Fidele’s eyes.

 

            Christine kept her eyes on the woman, thinking that she might show some sign of annoyance or concern; she and Fidele had often played games like this, using Fidele’s predatory form to startle people, and it should have worked well on someone whose daemon was an overgrown brown owl – either that, or daemons were no indication whatever of personality. Apparently daemons were no indication whatever of personality, because the woman’s fingers flexed lightly against the fabric of her black trousers, but she showed no other sign of emotion.

 

            “Will anything further be required, Miss Johnson?” the woman enquired, ignoring the by-play between the daemons.

 

            “Send Captain Becker up to me,” Christine ordered, drawing gyrfalcons on Lester’s blotting pad, partly for her personal satisfaction and partly to annoy him if he ever returned.

 

            Lester’s PA nodded and left, the owl still perched on her shoulder but apparently now asleep. Fidele took flight, swooping a beautiful parabola around the atrium and in through the still-open door to land precipitously on the perch. His untidy landing concerned Christine a little.

 

            “Fidele?” she demanded, laying her phone aside.

 

            “Shut that door,” Fidele said.

 

            Christine got up and shut the door, then returned to her seat, frowning. Fidele turned sharp, unblinking eyes on her.

 

            “We need to be _careful_ ,” he said.

 

            “I knew _that_ ,” Christine said, slightly puzzled and slightly contemptuous. They should be celebrating a success; what had got at Fidele now?

 

            Fidele jerked his sharp head to the side. “ _More_ careful. We have made mistakes in the past.”

 

            Christine went still and tense with anger, reminded of Jamaica and the hideous chain of circumstance that had led up to her ignominious shelving there, out of sight, out of mind, and out of the way. “I know that, too,” she said sharply.

 

            “We may make another one. If we aren’t –“

 

            “Careful. You said.”

 

            “Yes.” Fidele, a little calmer, started to preen. He was always finicky about his appearance, and hers. Christine appreciated it. There was no-one like Fidele for picking holes in her image, her deportment, or, for that matter, her drafting; at school, he had always warned her when she was obviously disinterested and attracting the teachers’ attention, and also stripped split infinitives out of her work like nothing on earth. “The people here aren’t quiescent, not like you think they are.”

 

            “It’s not as if they can do anything,” Christine objected, leaning forward. “Not with Lester gone. No-one else here has real political power or influence; they’re all scientists and soldiers, brains and brawn, no finesse.”

 

            Fidele stopped preening. “Are you sure about that?”

 

            There was a look about him that suggested that he knew she wasn’t, even if she had been formally. She let out a huff of irritation. “Not now, no. Why did you swoop out like that?”

 

            “I wanted a look and a listen.” Fidele’s voice was tight. “To see what was happening and to hear what that woman said to her daemon.”

 

            Christine raised an eyebrow. “And?”

 

            “She said _mind your manners, Heseskiel_. That’s all. Her daemon didn’t answer.” Fidele shuffled into a more comfortable position on the perch. “A well-behaved underling with a badly-behaved daemon? What does that tell you, Christine?”

 

            “Suppressed anger,” Christine guessed, “or someone with deep plans who has no intention of letting us get in her way and wants us to know we don’t frighten her... Clever, Fidele.” She took out her phone and made a note.

 

            Fidele inclined his head, freezing and stately, but she could feel that he was pleased. “As for what I _saw_. There are many more people down in the drum than are strictly necessary, and they’re in little groups, talking – but they looked up when they saw me. They’re sullen, Christine, they’re angry. They’re frightened too, but how long will fear hold them? If Quinn and that motley crew manage to get back in contact... Quinn is charismatic, Temple is liked, Maitland is trusted. We can’t have a rebellion on our hands. Not while we’re handling the Minister, too.”

 

            “No,” Christine said slowly, staring without seeing at Lester’s foul taste in art. “No... we can’t. Hmm.” She sat up straight. “Where’s Captain Becker?”    

 

            “ _I_ don’t know,” Fidele said, and Christine got up and went over to the door, opening it.

 

            “Give me your hand,” Fidele ordered.

 

            Christine looked back, her raised eyebrow question enough.

 

            “We want to present a united front,” Fidele said. “I’m your daemon, and I will make everyone as frightened of you as they are of me.”

 

            Christine smiled, and offered him her fist.


End file.
